PS 3515 
.U6 S8 
1919 
Copy 1 



Stuff O' Dreams 
and other plays 

(By 
q^EX HUNTER 




Book.IllLk^iL_ 
Copyright ]^" A"^ \'^ . 

copmiom DEPOSIT 



STUFF O' DREAMS 

and OTHER PLAYS 



STUFF O' DREAMS 
AND OTHER PLAYS 



BY 

REX HUNTER 




CHICAGO 

T. S. DENISON & COMPANY 

Publishers 






\ 



NOTICE 

PRODUCTION rig,Kts of tKese 
plays are reserved by tKe 
author -wKo may be addressed 
in care of tKe Publishers , T. S. 
Denison & Company, 154 West 
Randolph St., Chicago, 111. 



DEC -3 19^9 



COPYRIGHT, 1919 
REX HXINTER 



©CI.A536820 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 
The Wild Goose - - - - 7 

Stuff o' Dreams - - - - 19 

Hands and tKe Man - - - 33 

The Romany Road - - - 43 



THE WILD GOOSE 



TO 

MAE TRUESDALE 

who created 

the role of 

Mary Thompson 



THE WILD GOOSE 



Produced at Central Music Hall, Chicago, April 26, 1919 



CHARACTERS. 

Michael Moran The Wild Goose 

Maey Thompson A Rooming-House Servant 



"Would you stay tKe ^reat barnacle 
^GDse 
When his eyes are set to the sea 
and his teak to the salt of the 
air/ 



THE WILD GOOSE 



The scene is one of those curious combined living and 
sleeping rooms which are inhabited the world over 
by wandering young men of limited means. 

Michael Moran, tall, fair, slender, with something 
wild, restless and brooding in his face, is sitting 
at a typewriter in the center of the room typing 
a manuscript. Through a window at his right he 
can look out into the street. Behind him is a 
dressing table on which stand hair brushes and the 
leather case used to pack them in, a safety razor 
in a black case, a photograph of a girl, five or six 
pipes, and books and papers which have been hur- 
riedly thrown there because the typewriter table 
is overflowing with them. At Moran's right is the 
inevitable washstand, a round table covered with 
a white cloth and holding a jug of water and a 
bowl. A couple of towels are thrown over a rod 
attached to the table. A number of books are 
arranged carelessly in the window recess. A brown 
steamer trunk and a suitcase are on the floor, 
wedged in between the dressing table and the wash- 
stand. On the left of the room near the door is 
a combination bed-couch. A cap and overcoat are 
hanging from a rack on the wall at the left. 

There is a knock at the door. 

MiCHAEii. 

Come In! ^^^^^^'^ 

Mary Thompson, the maid-of -all-work of the 
rooming house, enters carrying a broom and duster. 

11 



12 THE WILD GOOSE 

She is a small, rather frightened looking creature 
•with wisps of brown hair which she keeps brushing 
out of her eyes. She regards Michael, who is so 
different from the other young men in the rooming 
house, with mingled admiration and awe. 

Mary. 
Oh, I didn't know you was in, Mr. Moran. I'll 
come back later. {Starts to go out.) 

Michael. 
(Heartily.) 
If you're wanting to clean the room, Mary, go 
ahead. 

Mary comes in and starts to sweep the room. 

Mary. 
Y' know that Miss Menzies that lives in th' room 
right below here, Mr. Moran.'' 

Michael. 
You mean the little dark girl who always dresses 
in blue.P (Mary nods.) Yes, I remember seeing her 
going in and out. ^ 

Well, she's to be married next week. To George 
Wilson. He works in Bostock's shoe store, y' know. 

Michael. 

(Abstractedly.) 

Yes.? ,, 

Mary. 

Yeh. They're goin' t' live in Greenview. That's 

th' suburb out on the north side, y' know. She says 

there's a real lawn in front of th' house, and they're 

goin' to keep chickens, an' she's bin asked t' join the 

Ladies' Culture Club. 



THE WILD GOOSE 1^3 

Michael. 

And George will join some secret society, I sup- 
pose, and catch the 7 :45 train into town every morn- 
ing. How can they stand it? Clipped wings, like 
the chickens in the yard. Can't fly any more. But 
perhaps they never had any wings. 

{He shrugs his shoulders as if dismissing the sub- 
ject and goes on typing.) 

Mary. 
{Stares at him, uncomprehending. After a pause.) 
What's that you're writin', Mr. Moran.'' 

Michael. 
I'm just writing a story about the South Seas. 

Mary. 
{Leaning on her broom and contemplating Michael 
with round eyes.) 
Was you really in the South Seas, Mr. Moran.'' 
It's a wonder you wasn't afraid of the cannibals. 

Michael. 
{Laughing.) 
Cannibals.'' That's good! There aren't any canni- 
bals there now. You get your ideas from yams like 
this. {He picks up a magazine from the table.) 
Here's a story written by some nice young man in an 
attic in New York. He talks about cannibal feasts 
as if they were an every day event down there, and 
the artist draws a Fijian to look like a Zulu. Look 

here ! 

Mary. 

Don't they really look like that, Mr. Moran.? 

Michael. 
I should say not! A Fijian, Mary, doesn't wear a 
feather head-dress. His hair is sufficient head- 



14 THE WILD GOOSE 

dress. He wears it as high as this — {holds right 
hand about a foot above his head) — and he doesn't 
tote a spear around. I've seen 'em all — Tongans, 
Fijians, Samoans, Solomon Islanders. I've drunk 
kava down the Street-of-all-Nations in Suva and 
been up the Navua River in a cutter. I've seen a 
native shin up a tree and bring down a green cocoa- 
nut with milk in it like nectar. This story, JMary 
(indicating the magazine)^ was so rotten that I 
thought I'd write the real thing and try it on the 
editor. (Resumes typing.) 

(Mary commences to arrange the articles on the 
dressing table. She picks up the photograph and 
gazes at it intently. Michael looks round and 
catches her in the act. Mary puts the photograph 
down hurriedly. Michael smiles.) 

Michael. 

She's a lovely thing, isn't she, Mary,? A lovely 
slim thing, would charm the heart out of any man's 
body. It's for her sake I'm giving up the wander- 
ing life. ,, 

^ Mary. 

I hope ye'll be very happy, I'm sure. 

Michael. 
Aye, I'm sure to be happy. Though there's mo- 
ments when a vagrant breeze steals in at the window, 
might have come straight from the beach of an island 
far away, where the blue seas are flashing in the sun 
— but what is it I'm talking about .? Me that am 
going to forsake that aimless wandering life forever. 
(He types rapidly.) 

(After a moment he goes to the window and looks 
out. Speaking half to himself and half to Mary.) 
Little people living in little houses. I'm to be a 



THE WILD GOOSE 15 

tame little man living in a little house. {He goes 

to the dressing table, picks up the photograph and 

looks at it.) But a lovely thing Hke her. It should 

be worth it. 

Mary. 

It must be an awful lonely life, wanderin' all th' 

time. Comin' to strange cities where j' don't know 

a soul. T,, 

Michael. 

Yes, it's often lonely. But there's something about 
it — the scene changing all the time — coming into a 
harbor and seeing a new city for the first time, 
there's something wonderful about that, Mary. And 
wandering about streets you were never in before, 
seeing different ways of doing things. {He contin- 
ues as if trying to convince himself.) But it's a queer 
lonely life, as you say, Mary. It's better for a man 
to stay in one place with some one to care for him. 
{He goes to the steamer* trunk and stands looking 
down at it.) The old brown trunk has been half over 
the world with me, but it's come to a rest at last. 

{He drags it into the center of the room, kneels hy 
it and opens it. He begins to turn over its contents. 
He takes out a package of photographs and begins 
to look at them.) 

Mary. 

What's that you're looking at, Mr. Moran.^* 

Michael,. 
Pictures of Honolulu, Mary — Honolulu, cross- 
roads of the world. With the big liners pausing for 
a while and going on to remote parts. The crowds 
on the wharf with leis of flowers and paper and the 
band playing "Farewell to Thee" — farewell — how it 
grips the heart-strings — wild sadness — the sadness 
of the butterfly that has so little a time to flash 



_16 THE WILD GOOSE 

bright wings in the sun. Brown boys diving in 
blue water. Waikiki Inn at evening — the musicians 
playing mournful music — songs of a dying race — a 
big white moon riding in the sky and the waves going 
swish — swish — under the inn. 

Mary. 
(Pausing in her sweeping, coming over by Moran's 
side and looking down at the trunk.) 
I've often heard tell of Honolulu. It must be 
wonderful t' be there. 

Michael. 
(Taking out another picture.) 
And here's a souvenir from London — London, old 
and grey, with the street lamps shining in the fog. 
And the roar of the traffic like an organ. Little 
cafe in Soho, where that merry party of artists gath- 
ered the night before I sailed — aimless drifters, the 
children of this world would call them — but how gay ! 

Mary. 

My father has relatives in London. He still gets 
letters from them. 

Michael. 

You can find everything in the world in London, 
Mary. And see this. (He takes out a little paper fan 
and goes on with increasing excitement.) That fan 
came from a yoshiwara in Yokohama. A little geisha 
girl gave it to me. She said: "This is to remember 
by — till you come back. Some day you come back." 
But I can never go back — now. 

(He sits with drooping head, mechanically turning 
over the things in the trunk.) 



THE WILD GOOSE 17 

Michael. 
(Rousing himself.) 

Here's a letter from Dick Austin — we were 
stranded together on the beach in Buenos Ayres. 
Came in on an old tramp steamer. There was a queer 
cafe there we used to go to. We would sit on the 
balcony and smoke brown paper cigarettes while we 
watched the colored crowds in the streets. Here's 
a Maori tiki from New Zealand — a native charm, 
you know, made out of greenstone. I've an uncle 
there who has a sheep farm. He wanted me to stay 
but I got tired of it — the same old thing day after 
day. {He rises and paces restlessly up and down the 
room.) Some people are born tame, Mary, and some 
are wild like me. What was that line about the wild 
goose.'' Yeats wrote it — I marked it, I remember. 

{He goes to the window recess, takes a book, turns 
the pages rapidly.) 

Here it is — 

(He reads in a ringing voice:) 

"Would you stay the great barnacle goose 
When his eyes are set to the sea and his beak to the 
salt of the air.?" 
Ah, he knew! (He stands in a listening attitude.) 
The wild geese are calling! (He stares upwards as if 
he actually saw a flight of wild geese winging over- 
head. ) Wild geese in the dawning ! Flying out under 
the grey sky! (With sudden decision.) I can't do 
it! I can't stay! 

(He opens the suitcase and begins hurriedly throw- 
ing into it the things on the dressing table. In doing 
this he knocks over the photograph, which falls to the 
floor unnoticed.) 



18 THE WILD GOOSE 

I want you to pack the rest of my things, Mary. 
(He snatches down the cap and overcoat.) I'll write 
to you and tell you where to send my trunk. Here's 
something for you. Goodbye! 

(He gives her some coins and rushes out, carrying 
the suitcase. Mary stands staring at the open door. 
Then she picks up the photograph, puts it hack on 
the dressing table and looks at it, slowly shaking her 
head. She picks up the book from which Michael 
read and reads slowly, hesitatingly.) 

Mary. 
"Would you stay the great barnacle goose 
When his eyes aj:e set to the sea and his beak to the 
salt of the air.'"' 

Curtain. 



STUFF O' DREAMS 



TO MY SISTER 



STUFF O' DREAMS 



This play was produced at the Globe Theatre, Kansas City, 
on April 19, 1918 



CHARACTERS. 

Ann Morgan, A Fisher Girl. 

Heeman Osboene, Her Foster Brother. 

Donald Matheson, A Young Artist from New 

York. 
Dudley Watson, A Friend of Donald's. 



Place. 
A Fishing Village on the Coast of Maine. 



Time. 
Evening. Dusk deepening into night. 



21 



"We are sucK stuff as 
dreams are made on" 



STUFF O' DREAMS 



The scene represents the interior of a fisherman^s 
cottage on the coast of Maine. A door to the left 
leads to the kitchen. Another door to the left and 
back leads to the street. To the right and back is 
a long, narrow window. There is an old chest on 
the right. In the corners are nets and oars. The 
floor is bare. 

Ann Morgan, a slender girl of a delicate beauty, 
with dark hair and eyes and olive skin, is sitting on 
a low stool in the center of the roorn mending a net. 
In her simple dress of dark green with a brown 
girdle she seems half child, half fairy. Her un- 
bound hair flows over her shoulders. 

Donald Matheson, a young man of about twenty- 
five, with the sensitive face and long thin hands 
of the artist, peeps in at the window and then 
comes softly into the room. He is dressed with 
easy tasteful negligence in dark clothes with soft 
white shirt and black tie. Under his right arm he 
carries two small canvases. He tiptoes up to Ann 
and places his hands over her eyes. 

Donald. 

Guess who it is ! . 

Ann. 

The Maker of Pictures. 

Donald. 
(Withdrawing his hands.) 
Right! What were you dreaming of.? 



Note. — The part of Ann must be played without the slight- 
est trace of sophistication. 

23 



24 STUFF O' DREAMS 

Ann. 

I was dreaming of the little mermaids with sea- 
weed in their hair who steal ashore on hot summer 
days and curl up on the sand. Did you paint some 
lovely sea pictures? 

Donald. 
(Showing her the pictures.) 
I made these today. 

Ann. 
(Looking at the pictures and clasping her hands in 
ecstasy.) 
I think they're beautiful. But why haven't you 
put some mermaids in.'* 

Donald. 
(Shaking his head sadly.) 
The world has forgotten how to see mermaids. 
And I must paint my pictures for the approval of 
the world or I will get no bread to keep life in me. 
(He places the canvases against the wall. Ann rises, 
goes to the window and looks out.) 

Ann. 

The sea is peaceful as a child tonight. It is barely 
moving, like the breast of a little child sunk in heavy 
dreams. And yet its very quietness is like the calm 
which precedes a storm. Before morning the wind 
may be howling and the white horses may come 
charging into shore. (Pause.) I hope Herman 
doesn't stay out late in his boat. 

Donald. 
No, I saw him in the village street a little while 
ago. That foster brother of yours is certainly de- 
voted to you, little Ann. He reminds me of a shaggy 
watch dog that never sleeps. 



STUFF O' DREAMS 25 

Ann. 
Dear old Herman! 

Donald. 
I'm afraid he doesn't like me — he seems to have 
some vague distrust of me. 

Ann. 
Oh, you only imagine that. I'm sure he's glad you 
came. (Donald goes to her.) It seems as if you had 
been here always instead of a few weeks. {^She turns 
to Donald. They clasp hands.) Do you remember 
the day you first told me that you — you loved me? 

Donald. 
Do you think I'd ever forget.'' We were coming 
down the cliff together. 

Ann. 
You were leading me by the hand. 

Donald. 
I felt you slipping. 

Ann. 
You put out your arms and caught me. I felt 
that I was living for the first time. 

Donald. 
Your head fell back on my shoulder. 

Ann. 

You kissed me. I thought I saw golden lilies 
blooming in Paradise. 

Donald. 
{Taking her in his arms.) 
Dear little Ann ! Beautiful soul in a beautiful 
body. (Ann clings for a moment, then goes to the 
stool and sits.) 



26 STUFF O' DREAMS 

Ann. 

Tell me about New York. It is wonderful, is it 

not.? 

Donald. 

(Coming to Ann's side and kneeling hy her.) 

New York is very wonderful. You must come to 

New York with me, little Ann. 

Ann. 

Would the people there like me.'' 

Donald. 
You would lay a magic spell upon them. With 
your oval face and olive skin you are like a little 
Italian page boy — a page boy of mediaeval times 
when life was richer than now. I picture you in 
doublet and hose, with a feather in your cap, slip- 
ping on little pointed feet down the purple canyons 
which are the streets of New York, gazing with shy 
wonder at the modern world. 

Ann. 
( With wide dreaming eyes like a child's.) 
Or in a gold frock.'' 

Donald. 
Yes, yes, in a gold frock! We will go to places 
full of light and music. You will give new life to 
the people there who have tired of music and light. 
They will see you as a yellow primrose growing by 
a dusty highway where many feet have passed. 

Ann. 

I have never seen a real city — only dream cities. 

I see dream cities when it is very quiet and I walk by 

the sea with the spray on my face. I see dream cities 

in the dawning when the dawn is silver on their 



STUFF O' DREAMS 27 

gleaming spires. And I see them in the evening 
when the high towers are touched with the gold of 
flaming sunsets. ^^ 

° JJONALD. 

You've always lived in dreams, haven't you, little 

Ann ? . 

Ann. 

Ever since I was a child. The world of dreams is 
the only real world I know. 

Donated. 
And if your dream world were shattered.'' 

Ann. 
Then I would not want to live. 

Donald. 
You are right. The death of the body — it is 
nothing. But when a dream is done to death it is 
terrible. They say that you can hear dead dreams 
crying in the voice of the sea at night time. (Pause.) 
But do not talk about such things. They make me 
morbid, and fill me with foolish fancies. Let us talk 
about the gold frock in which you will look like a 
yellow primrose. . 

I must show you my gold coat. (She rises and 
goes to the chest.) A lady who was down here last 
summer gave it to me. (She opens the chest and 
takes out a yellow coat embroidered with gold thread. 
She throws the coat over her shoulders.) 

Donald. 
(Bowing low.) 
The Maker of Pictures does homage to the Prin- 
cess in Yellow. Oh, Ann, you are exquisite in your 
golden coat. 



28 STUFF O' DREAMS 

Ann. 

(Walking up and down the room like a delighted 
child.) 
Donald says I am exquisite in my golden coat, and 
I am going to New York with him. 

Herman Osborne, a young man in sou'wester 
hat and oilskins, with bluff honest manner, enters 
with Dudley Watson, who is about the same age as 
Donald and is somewhat similarly dressed. 

Herman. 
(Rather brusquely.) 
Here's a gentleman asking for ye, Mr. Matheson. 
(He examines the nets on the walls.) 

Watson. 
Well, Donald, old chap, rather a surprise, eh? 

Donald. 
(Shaking hands.) 
It is rather a surprise, Dudley. (As Watson 
glances curiously at Ann.) Ann, this is my friend 
Mr. Dudley Watson from New York. (Watson 
bows. Ann makes him a quaint little courtesy.) 
And now tell me what brings you down here. 

Watson. 
Your wife told me that you had discovered a little 
out of the way place where no one had ever painted 
before. (On the word "wife" Ann reels back and 
Herman looks up with a start.) It sounded so in- 
teresting that I decided to run down and join you. 

Ann. 

(With a gesture of pain.) 
His wife! 



STUFF O' DREAMS 29 

Watson. 
(Noticing nothing, goes on.) 
By the way, I have a letter from your wife for 
you. (Takes letter from his pocket and hands it to 
Donald, who stands staring at it dazedly.) 

Herman. 
(With a threatening gesture to Donald.) 
I might have known there was something Hke this ! 

Watson. 
There's nothing wrong, is there, Donald.? (He 
looks from Donald to Herman in amazement. Then 
he glances at Ann, who is leaning against the wall, 
almost collapsing. The situation suddenly seems to 
dawn on him.) I'm sorry — I — didn't mean — I'll see 
you tomorrow, Donald. (He goes out hurriedly.) 

(There is dead silence for a few moments. Donald 
slowly opens the letter, glances over it, then drops 
his hands with a gesture of hopelessness.) 

Herman. 
(Suddenly breaking out.) 
You went sailing with me yesterday. You sat 
there smiling and talking to me in your soft voice, 
when all the time you were amusing yourself with 
Ann here. As sure as there's a sky above us, I'd 
have drowned you like a rat if I'd known ! 

Donald. 
(Giving him the letter.) 
Read this. It may help you to understand. 

Herman. 
(Reading slowly.) 
"Dear Donald: I hope you'll do some pictures 
down there that will sell, instead of a lot of fanciful 



30 STUFF O' DREAMS 

daubs that the dealers won't look at. For Heaven's 
sake settle down to hard work, instead of wasting 
time with some girl who pities you — thinks you're 
misunderstood and all that sort of thing. As for 
setting you free, you might as well forget about it. 
You married me with your eyes open and I'm going 
to hold you to the bargain, if it's only for the satis- 
faction of preventing your marrying some silly 
creature who's fooled by your soft looks and your 
glib tongue. — Mary." 

Ann. 

Oh, I didn't know, I didn't know — that life could 
be so cruel. It hurts me — it hurts me — here {plac- 
ing her hand over her heart). 

Herman. 

{Rushing at Donald and seizing him hy the 

shoulders.) 

I said I'd have drowned you like a rat if I'd known. 

But it's not too late ! It's not too late ! I'll kill you 

with my bare hands for this ! 

Donald. 

{As if in a dream.) 
How can you kill a man when he is dead.'' 

{The two men stare into each other'' s eyes for sev- 
eral moments, then Herman lets his hands slowly 
drop away and stands in an attitude of helplessness.) 

Donald. 
{To Herman.) 

Will you give me one little minute with her alone? 
To speak my farewell? For all time? Will you do 



STUFF O' DREAMS 31 

this for me? And after, you may do what you like 
with me. 

(Herman stands in an attitude of indecision for a 
moment, then suddenly goes out.) 

Donald. 
(To Ann, speaking in a monotonous tone.) 
I didn't mean to speak. But that day. Coming 
down the cliff. You were in my arms in a moment. 
I spoke before I knew. (Pause.) Mary and I never 
really loved each other. Our marriage was a mis- 
take. I hoped blindly that she would set me free. 
But I might have known she wouldn't grant me that. 
She'd be afraid of making me happy. (Pause.) We 
were both dreamers, little Ann, dreaming through the 
night time. And now the dawn is here. (He shivers.) 
Oh God, how cold the dawn is ! (As he speaks the fol- 
lowing line he slowly moves towards the door at the 
back like a man walking in his sleep, and goes out). 
How — cold — the — dawn — is ! 

Ann. 
(Hysterically, with arms outstretched to the door 
through which Donald has vanished.) 

Don't take my dreams from me ! Don't take my 
dreams ! 

(She suddenly becomes very quiet. A long pause.) 

Goodbye, little Italian page boy. You'll never live 
now. The purple canyons will never see you. Good- 
bye, little Princess in Yellow. 

(She lets the coat drop from her shoulders and 



32 STUFF O' DREAMS 

holds it against her breast.) You will never grow 
like a primrose by the side of the dusty highway. 

(Kneeling hy the chest with both arms thrown 
across it.) 

They couldn't last — they couldn't last — I see it now 
— and yet — they die so hard — my dreams — my little 
dreams ! 

CUETAIN. 



HANDS AND THE MAN 



HANDS AND THE MAN 



CHARACTERS. 

Lois Stanton, A Radiant Blonde of Twenty-one. 
Bernice Whittaker, a Dazzling Brunette of About 
the Same Age. 



HANDS AND THE MAN 



The scene is the breakfast room in the home of Lois 
Stanton. There is a door on the left and at the 
hack are French windows, curtained. The color 
scheme of the room is pale blue and white. The 
furniture is light and dainty and on the floor is a 
good Persian rug. The walls contain two etchings 
which are above the average. In the center of the 
room is a small table laid for breakfast, on either 
side of which stand two chairs. 

Lois Stanton, in becoming negligee and cap, is 
seated at the right of the table, consuming rolls 
and chocolate and looking over the morning news- 
paper. Bernice Whittaker, similarly attired, 
enters through the French windows and comes to 
the side of Lois, whose guest she is. 

Bernice. 
Good morning, Lois. 

Lois. 
Good morning, dear. (They kiss.) Sleep welL'' 

Bernice. 

Like a top, thanks. (She seats herself left of the 

table.) -. 

^ Lois. 

Let me give you some chocolate. 

Bernice. 
Thanks. {She holds out her cup.) 

Lois. 
(Pouring.) 
You'll find rolls and strawberries on the table. 
Of course you can have something more substantial 

37 



38 HANDS AND THE MAN 

if you care for it, but I prefer a light breakfast 

"^y^^l^- Bernice. 

Rolls and strawberries suit me admirably. {She 
helps herself to both.) Anytliing in the paper? 

Lois. 
Oh, the usual inevitable story of a woman who shot 
a man rather than give him up to another woman. 

Bernice. 
Absurd situation, isn't it? I can't imagine myself 
doing anything so desperate. Fd let the brute go. 

Lois. 
And so would I. No man is worth fighting over. 

Bernice. 
Let me see the society column a moment, will you? 

Lois. 
Certainly. (She passes over the newspaper.) 

Bernice. 
{Turning to the column in question.) 
H'm! Dick Neville staying at Forest Lake. I 
thought he was going to California. {She says this 
thoughtfully^ and half to herself.) 

Lois. 

(Looking keenly/ at her guest.) 

Anything especially interesting to you about Mr. 

Neville's movements? 

Bernice. 

(A little piqued.) 

Oh, well, I imagine I've a right to be interested. 

Dick has shown a good deal of interest in me, you 

know. _. 

Lois. 

Dick? So it's got to the first name stage, has it? 



HANDS AND THE MAN 39 

Bernice. 
Of course. What about it? 

Lois. 
Just this, Bernice. I wish jou wouldn't keep 
poaching on my preserves. 

Bernice. 
Your preserves.? 

Lois. 
Yes, Whenever I become interested in a man, you 
try to get him away from me. 

Bernice. 
But Dick Neville— 

Lois. 
Dick Neville has shown me a great deal of atten- 
tion. _, 

Bernice. 

{Tossing her head.) 
It depends of course upon what you call attention. 

Lois. 
Well, when a man takes you out canoeing by 
moonlight, for instance — 

Bernice. 
Canoeing by moonlight! 

Lois. 

Yes, at the house party at the Gray's last month 
Dick took me out on the lake several times. 

Bernice. 
Tell me, did he sing for you? 

Lois. 
Why, yes — how did you guess? 



40 HANDS AND THE MAN 

Bernice. 
Oh, whenever Dick took me out canoeing by moon- 
light he sang for me. Rather a pleasant barytone 
he's got, isn't it? Very effective in "There's a Long, 
Long Trail." 

So he sang that for you, did he.'* 

Bernice. 

Of course. He told me that he always sang best 

when he was with me — that there was something 

supernal, something spirituelle and inspirational 

about me — - 

Lois. 

{Getting up and walking agitatedly about the room.) 

But that's just what he told me! 

Bernice. 

Oh, I suppose he was carried away by the emotion 

of the moment. At least he's never written letters 

to you as he did to me. 

Lois. 

Oh, hasn't he.'* Wait just a moment. (She goes 

out left.) _, 

Bernice. 

(Walking up and down.) 
Good heavens! I couldn't have believed that Dick 
had corresponded with her. There must be some mis- 
take somewhere. 

Lois re-enters with a packet of letters tied with 
pale blue ribbon. ^ 

So he never wrote letters to me, eh? Recognize 
that writing? (She thrusts the packet under the 
eyes of her friend.) 

Bernice. 

Yes. It is his writing. I had no idea — 



HANDS AND THE MAN 41 

Lois. 

Just listen to this. (She removes the ribbon from 
the packet, takes out one of the letters and reads.) 

"I'll never forget the wonderful time we've had 
together. That last night on the lake will always 
be an especially tender memory to me. Of course 
your eyes and hair are exquisite, but I think it's 
your hands I love best. You have the most adorable 
hands I've ever seen. They remind me of Lawrence 
Hope's lines : 

'Pale hands, pink tipped, like lotus buds that float 
On those still waters where we used to dwell.' " 

Bernice. 
Stop, stop ! It's incredible ! 

Lois. 
What do you mean.'' 

Bernice. 
Just this. He wrote me the very same thing, and 
he even quoted those identical lines. 

Lois. 
Bernice, he's been fooling both of us. 

Bernice. 
How humiliating! I can scarcely credit it even 
now. 

(There is a knock at the door. Lois goes to the 
door, opens it and takes two letters.) 

Lois. 
Oh, thank you, Marie. (Coming to Bernice.) 
Here's the morning mail. There's a letter for each 
of us. (She gives one letter to Bernice. The two 



42 HANDS AND THE MAN 

girls open the letters together. They take out cards 
and glance quickly over them.) 

Lois. 

This is the crowning blow. (Reading.) "Mr. and 
Mrs. Godfrey Fairfax request the pleasure of your 
presence at the marriage of their daughter Marjorie 
to Mr. Richard Neville on Wednesday, July 4, One 
Thousand Nine Hundred and Nineteen, at 3 o'clock, 
at St. Mark's Episcopal Church, Forest Lake." 

Bernice. 
I wonder if he told Marjorie what wonderful hands 
she had.-^ 

(The two girls break into hysterical laughter as) 
The Curtain Falls. 



THE ROMANY ROAD 



THE ROMANY ROAD 



Produced at Central Music Hall, Chicago, February 15, 1919 



CHARACTERS. 

Zaida A Gypsy Girl 

Manuel Her Gypsy Lover 

Manuel's Mother 

Harry Marsden 

A Young Man from the Outer World 

MoNA Marsden His Sister 

Two Gypsy Girls. .^^^* About Eighteen and Twenty 

A Little Gypsy Girl Aged About Five 



Romany road, my Keart is calling 
Once more to Ibe out on you, 
winding Romany road ; 
Romany road, my tears are falling,, 
Blinding me, Kiding, from si^Kt 
my lon^ lost Romany road. 



THE ROMANY ROAD 



The scene represents a clearing in a forest. The 
characters are seated about a camp fire. They 
have just finished supper. Zaida is playing with 
a pack of cards, laying them out in rows before her. 

Manuel wears a brilliantly colored handkerchief 
about his head and a sash into which a dagger is 
stuck. The Girls and the Gypsy Mother wear 
costumes in which reds and yellows predominate 
with cheap bangles and rings. 

As the curtain goes up the Two Girls are singing: 
Romany Road 

cMelody by REX HUNTER Harmonized by GEO. F. ROSCHE 



Voices in Unison— Violin. 
Moderato. mf 



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THE ROMANY ROAD 



Romany Road — Continued 



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THE ROMANY ROAD 



49 



Romany Road — Continued 



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hid - ing from sight My long lost Eo - man - y road. 



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The Gypsy Mother. 

{As the song ends.) 

'Tis a good song. The song of the gypsy who 

forsakes the Romany road for the walls of cities. 

There is no coming back for the gypsy who forsakes 

the Romany road. 

Manuel. 
Well said, mother. Walled city or winding road, 
each must make his choice. 

Zaida. 

(Looking up from the cards.) 

I met two people from the city this morning. A 

young man and his sister. I said I would tell their 

fortunes if they crossed my palm with silver. They 

told me they would come to the camp tonight. 



50 THE ROMANY ROAD 

The Gypsy Mother. 

(Passionately.) 

Let them keep to their own world. We do not 

want them here. 

Zaida. 

{Glancing at Manuel.) 

The young man is very good looking. He and his 

sister are staying at the big country house. They 

have a swift car that runs quite smoothly, different 

from our lumbering wagons. 

Manuel. 
You are no true Romany, to look with eyes of de- 
sire upon the things of the city dwellers. 

Harry and Mona Marsden enter left. Both wear 
evening clothes. Zaida jumps up to welcome the vis- 
itors. Manuel and his Mother regard them with 

sinister glances. 

Harry. 

Here she is ! 

Mona. 

Good evening, Zaida. 

Zaida. 

You kept your promise, then ! 

Harry. 
Of course ; and now you are going to tell our for- 
tunes. {He places a coin in Zaida's palm.) 

Zaida. 
I will tell your sister's first. {She takes Mona's 
hand and looks into the palm.) Long life and worldly 
success, head supreme over heart. You will make a 
wise marriage and sit by a warm fire in a cold man- 
sion. Only in the gloaming will you hear your little 
dreams calling. 



THE ROMANY ROAD 51 

MONA. 

(Withdrawing her hand.) 
What a strange girl you are, Zaida. (She shud- 
ders.) And what a strange fate you predict. (She 
goes to the other two girls and talks to them.) 

Zaida. 
(To Harry.) 
Perhaps you also are — a little afraid.? 

Harry. 
(Boisterously.) 
Not in the least. I dare you to make me shudder. 
But how strangely that young man looks at us. 
(Indicating Manuel.) One would think he had the 
evil eye. Come over here where he can't hear us. 
(Zaida and Harry come down center. He kneels 
beside her and she gazes into his palm.) 

Zaida. 

I see many women in your life. Dark and fair, 

merry and sad. But there is one with yellow hair and 

eyes blue and cold as ice who holds your heart in her 

hands. ^-. 

Harry. 

(Looking meaningly into her eyes.) 
Are you sure she has not brown eyes and black 
hair.? (Zaida smiles and turns away.) Listen, Zaida, 
I want you to come to the dance at the big house to- 
night. You were meant for a ball room and not for 

a forest glade. „ 

^ Zaida. 

I cannot go like this. (Indicating her costume.) 

Harry. 
My sister will lend you one of her frocks. You 
will outshine them all. (Calling across to Mona.) 



52 THE ROMANY ROAD 

Mona, if Zaida comes to the dance, will you lend her 
a dress? 

MoNA. 

Yes, gladly. She can have my blue and silver 
dress. (Zaida hesitates.) 

Harry. 
(Urgently.) 
Come to the dance with me, little brown bird ! You 
will be wonderful in blue and silver. Between the 
dances we will walk in the garden. The sky will be 
blue above us and the moon will be silver. You will 
hear the white peacock on the garden wall shake his 
long white laugh across the dreaming night. 

Zaida. 
(With sudden decision.) 
I will go to the dance with you. 

Harry. 
Mona, Zaida is coming with us! 

MoNA. 

I'm so glad. She'll create a sensation, I know. 
(Mona and Harry walk up stage. Zaida goes to 
Manuel and his Mother.) 

Zaida. 
I am going to the dance with the city people. 
{They make no answer. Zaida joins Harry and 
MoNA. They go out left.) 

The Gypsy Mother. 
{Leaning forward and gripping Manuel's arm 

fiercely.) 
I told you how it would be, did I not? She forsakes 
the Romany road for the beaten highways of the city 
dwellers. 



THE ROMANY ROAD 53 

Manuel. 
There must be some strain of the stranger's blood 
in her veins. Cities had ever a strange allure for her. 

The Gypsy Mother. 
Your heart has turned from me since that girl 
grew into maidenhood. But you shall see which love 
lasts longer. The love of the mother is like wine. 
It becomes stronger with the years. The love of the 
girl is like a garland. It withers in the hot sun of 

life. 

Manuel. 

She will come back to the camp fire. 

The Gypsy Mother. 
And you will take her back? You will take back 
the leavings of the stranger.? Is there milk or red 
blood in your veins.? Remember the ancient law of 
our race — there is no coming back for the gypsy 
who leaves the Romany road. (She goes out right. 
Manuel sits moodily staring into the fire for a few 
moments. Then with a resolute attempt to shake off 
his dejection he goes to the Two Girls.) 

Manuel. 

Paquita — Lolita, I am sad tonight. Dance for me, 
will you not.? Dance me one of the ancient dances of 
our race. {The Two Girls dance.) And now the 
little one. {The Child dances. Manuel applauds 
and pets her.) 

One of the Girls. 

It Is time the little one was sleeping. I will sing 
her to sleep with the song of the Romany road. {She 
picks up the Child in her arms and accompanied by 
the Other Girl, goes out right. Left alone, Man- 
uel sits staring into the fire. The melancholy caused 



54 THE ROMANY ROAD 

hy Zaida's desertion comes hack upon him with re- 
doubled intensity now that the momentary diversion 
caused hy the dancing is over. He appears to be in 
deep thought and clasps and unclasps his hands spas- 
modically. The light of the fire sinks lower.) 

The curtain is dropped for one minute to indicate 
the passing of the night. When it rises again Man- 
uel is sitting in the same position staring into the 
fire. The Gypsy Mother enters from the right, goes 
to him and putting her hand on his shoulder gently 

shakes him. ^ ^ __ 

The Gypsy Mother. 

What ails you, my son? Do you not know that it 

is dawn? ,, 

Manuel.. 

{Pointing to the fire.) 
Ashes! Do you see them? Ashes where the flames 
leaped. Cold and grey like my soul. 

The Gypsy Mother. 
(Starting back.) 
What are you saying? 

Manuel. 
I do not know what I am saying. I wish to be 

The Gypsy Mother. 
Has Zaida not come back? 

Manuel. 
No. The winding road will know her feet no more. 
Leave me. I wish to be alone. (The Gypsy Mother 
slowly goes out again.) 

Zaida enters from the left. She wears the blue and 
silver dancing frock which was promised her. Across 
her shoulders is an evening coat. She stands looking 
forlornly at Manuel, who continues to gaze brood- 



THE ROMANY ROAD 55 

ingly into the fire. TJien she slmdy lets the coat drop 
from her shoulders. This action must be very delib- 
erate, symbolizing the dropping behind her of the 
things of the cities. Zaida rushes to Manuel and 
falls on her knees beside him. 

Zaida. 
Manuel, I have come back. 

Manuel. 
Come back? (He looks at her vacantly, as if un- 
certain that he is not dreaming.) 

Zaida. 
Yes, I have come back to the gypsy life. I was 
unhappy at the strangers' ball. The lights dazzled 
me. Girls with cold faces gathered about me as if I 
was a wild thing. Some of them sneered. I ran back 
all the way across the fields. (Manuel leaps to his 
feet. A sudden purpose has come into his eyes. He 
drops his right hand on the knife in his belt. Zaida 
stumbles to her feet and starts back a pace.) 

Manuel. 
So you have come back — when the stranger tired 
of you.'' You think that I would take his leavings.? 
{He winds his left arm about Zaida's neck. She 
gazes at him as if in a stupor.) There is no coming 
back for the gypsy who forsakes the Romany road. 
{He draws out the knife.) You have not come back 
to the gypsy life. You have come back to the gypsy 
— death! {He stabs her. She cries out and falls back. 
He kneels beside the body torn between anger and 
remorse. From the wings on the right come the 
voices of the Two Girls singing the song of the Rom- 
any road.) 

Curtain. 



Whose Little Bride Are You? 

BY 

Edith Ellis 

A FARCE Comedy, in 3 acts; 5 males, 5 females. 
Time, 2% hours. Scene: 1 handsomely furnished 
living room. This play was written by the autlior 
of "Mary Jane's Pa" and other nation-wide successes. 

CAST OF CHARACTERS. 
Dr. Benjamin Bellows. A Sentimental Retired Physician 
Algernon Clawhammer. . .His Prospective Son-In-Law 

Augustus May His Butler 

Simeon Singleton His Old Friend 

George Tobin His Prospective Step-Son 

Florence Bellows His Charming Daughter 

Mrs. MacEckron His Neighbor 

Dolly MacEckron Her Daughter 

Maggie Brady The Maid 

Mrs. Amelia Tobin The Bride-To-Be 

At the beginning one potential bride is visible; be- 
fore the final curtain the woods, so to speak, are full 
of them. The brides range in assortment from the 
little flapper not yet out of her teens, to the seasoned 
200-pound campaigner who has worn the orange blos- 
soms no less than four times. Matrimonial pairing 
proceeds even to the butler and the housemaid. Mis- 
taken identity furnishes an unusual measure of com- 
plications until it actually becomes a problem as to 
which little bride is which, or who. Plot, situations 
and dialogue dovetail perfectly. The incidents are as 
humorous and rapid-fire as ever went into a play. It 
is especially adapted to amateurs, the parts being so 
vividly characterized and the action so continuous that 
the piece virtually carries itself. 

Professional stage rights reserved and a 
royalty of fifteen dollars required for amateur 
performance. Price, Per Copy, 50 Cents 



T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers 

154 West Randolph Street CHICAGO 



Gettin' Acquainted 

BY 

Georgia Earle 

QUAINT, small-town comedy in 1 act; 1 male, 2 
females. Time, 25 minutes. Scene: A New Eng- 
land sitting room. Played for three years by tl>e 
talented authoress herself, on the Keith and Orpheum 
circuits; in New York, Chicago, Toronto, San Fran- 
cisco, New Orleans and cities in between, it struck a 
new note in vaudeville and has been compared with 
"The Old Homestead," Mary E. Wilkins' stories, etc. 

CAST OF CHARACTERS. 

Jane Stewart A Spinster 

Priscilla Stewart Her Sister, Also a Spinster 

John Purdy A Wooer for Fifteen Years 

All have heard of men who courted for years and 
did not "pop"; most communities can furnish living 
examples. The idea has never been used before with 
such clever and sprightly results. Honest, slow-think- 
ing, yet withal determined John Purdy had spent 15 
years just gettin' acquainted with the Stewart sisters, 
Jane and Priscilla. Finally Jane "goes and gets herself 
engaged" to another man but decides to bring matters 
to a focus for Priscilla. She determines to "make it 
snappy" and poor old John is "railroaded" into camp. 
Splendid lines and "business" so unusually clever as 
to place it almost in a class by itself among one-act 
plays. Like most talented creations, its simplicity 
commends it; well adapted to amateur presentation. 
Very minute directions for staging, acting and "busi- 
ness." Four excellent half-tone reproductions of scenes. 

Professional stage rights reserved and a 
royalty of five dollars required for atnateur 
performance. Price, Per Copy, 35 Cents 



T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers 

154 West Randolph Street CHICAGO 



Assisted By Sadie 



A 



BY 

Walter Ben Hare 

COMEDY of mystery, in 4 acts; 6 males, 6 females. 
Time, 2^ hours. Scenes: 2 easy interiors. 



CAST OP CHARACTERS. 

Alonzo Dow The Mysterious Clubman 

Cameron The Clever Detective 

Bunch The Slangy Bellboy 

Dr. Beedle The Old Professor 

Colonel Jenniver The Puzzled Hotel Manager 

Mr. Null The Young Millionaire 

Sadie The Stenographer 

Harriet The Society Girl 

Senora Gonzales The Fascinator 

Mrs. C. Christopher Carley The Peppery Dowager 

Vicky The Debutante 

Mrs. Quinn The Maid 

This is a swiftly moving ingenious comedy of adven- 
ture, sparkling with humor and replete with mystery. 
Excitement, laughter and a mounting tensity of emo- 
tion are blended with the charm of a delightful style. 
A $20,000 pearl necklace is stolen at a large seaside 
hotel. This is followed by other crimes until the detec- 
tives and incidentally the audience find themselves in 
a maze of intrigue and mystery from which they are 
not extricated until the final curtain and then only 
with the assistance of Sadie. Into the pervading 
comedy scenes are blended pathos, serious action and 
incident until the audience wonders what will happen 
next. The twelve characters are about equally bal- 
anced. 

Professional stage rights reserved and a 
royalty often dollars required for amateur 
performance. Price, Per Copy, 35 Cents. 



T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers 

154 West Randolph Street CHICAGO 



For the Love of Johnny 

BY 

Harry Hamilton 

A PLAY, in 3 acts; 6 males, 3 females. Time, 2Vi 
liours. Scenes: 1 interior, 1 exterior. In his orig- 
inal manuscript the author called this play "a 
play of human hearts," and a page of description could 
not better explain its character. 

CAST OF CHARACTERS. 

Ethel Banks The Niece 

Harriet Banks The Aunt 

Dorothy Banks The Daughter 

Dick Wayburn The Coward 

Jerrymeyer Banks The Uncle 

Phil Osborne The Soldier 

John Turkey-Legs The Indian 

Father Ryan The Priest 

Johnny Banks The Nephew 

Mr. Woods The Stranger 

Around an intensely dramatic situation, the author 
has woven a human throbbing story abounding in 
clean and clever comedy and genuine pathos. We do 
not love all the characters the way we do Ethel and 
Johnny but we are not indifferent to any for they 
are all intensely human. We follow the Cinderella-like 
form of Ethel through the play with tears and laugh- 
ter; we fear Dick Wayburn; our hearts are won by 
the courage and unselfishness of Father Ryan; we 
grow fat laughing at Phil, the returned soldier; John 
Turkey-Legs inspires within us a wholesome respect 
for the native Red Man; Uncle Jerry wins our sym- 
pathy and forgiveness; we admire Dorothy, and we 
finally take back all we said about Aunt Harriet when 
in the last act she renounces the domestic trousers 
she has worn all through the play. No play since 
"The Parish Priest" or "The Rosary" has had a more 
appealing character of a priest than that of Father 
Ryan. A professional play, successful on the road, 
within the scope of talented amateur players. Stage 
directions and business unusually complete. 

Professional stage rights reserved and a 
royalty often dollars required for amateur 
performance. Price, Per Copy, 35 Cents 

T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers 

154 West Randolph Street CHICAGO 



